


every last moment

by Trialia



Category: Chandelier - Sia (Song)
Genre: Adult Content, Alcohol, Angst, Bisexual Female Character, British Character, Clubbing, Dancing, Drugs, Gen, Identity, Identity Issues, Misses Clause Challenge, Music, Narcissism, POV Female Character, Self-Medication, Survival, Swearing, Terminal Illnesses, Yuletide, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trialia/pseuds/Trialia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to do everything, while I still can. Nothing gets to stop me dancing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	every last moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [auctorial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auctorial/gifts).



> Thanks to MadameHardy and AdaptationDecay for beta-reading. (Please keep an eye on the tags for warnings.)

It's been a while since I've been to this club. I throw myself completely into the music, dance to every song the whole night through, 'til the glitter shimmers on my skin and my perfume fills the air around me. 

I can smell the sour tang of sweat beneath the spicy scent on my skin, and I wouldn't say it's the hottest underlying note for a fragrance, but the other people dancing don't seem to care too much. They've probably been going just as long and are just as used to the smell on a busy night as I am. Even with the air con there's always a faint damp stink of sweat under the overpowering mixture of cheap and expensive perfumes, cheap and pricey aftershave, Lynx and beer and sick. I nearly bathe in my body spray to block out some of the nastier smells that come with clubbing. 

I could probably put up with it anyway, if I had to. Let's be fair. I can stand almost anything if I get to dance.

A guy on my left with a sky-blue shirt has been visibly sweating; the patches show on the shirt all over his chest and down his sides when the disco lights sweep past him on the way round the room. The pretty redhead dancing face-to-face with him has a look on her face that says she can't help getting close enough to smell him if she wants to dance with him, but she's not getting near enough to touch, whether or not she thinks he's hot. Can't really blame her. Though I have to wonder how her heels don't tip her off her feet and into his chest; they've got to be six inches at least. I kinda hope for her sake they don't. That would not be a pretty sight. Unless she's left her bag in the cloakroom or something, she's not got anything with her to touch up her face if her make-up gets smeared all across his shirt. Man, she'd have to be pissed. I can picture the look she'd get.

I used to be that girl. Stilettos, lippy, smoky eyes and all. Good luck to her.

The heat's so intense I nearly can't breathe, but I can't stop dancing either. I don't dare stop. I just don't. Who knows how much longer I'll be able to pull an all-nighter like this? I can feel the buzz of the alcohol under my skin, almost drowning out the itch of the pills I mixed with my first drink. I know how far I can push myself before it's not safe any more. I know it too well. I've spent the last few weeks figuring all that out, and a few other things.

I shouldn't mix 'em, I know and god knows I've been told, but I'd rather have a hangover than the groggy cotton-wool headaches that the pills give me all by themselves.

The DJ's swapped the disc for a mellow, classic house vinyl, and I usually take the chance of the odd slower track in this room to fight my way through to the bar, but the volume keeps me feeling the beat; the floor's made of something that lets the vibration go right through me every time, with every hit, through my feet and up into my body with every breath I take.

I've always liked that feeling. Like the music takes a hold of me and won't let go, won't ever let me go. That's what I want right now. That's what I crave. 

Not the easing of pain that the pills bring, or the weird level place they send my brain sometimes; not even the oblivion I used to get when I drank too much. I say used to - I don't think the blackout I'd have if I pushed too far when I'm mixing drinks with these kind of drugs is the kind I'd like very much. I did that once, passed out by the bar, back when I started taking this crap, when I first started trying my limits. I was lucky I wasn't alone; my friends were there that night, and I think they just thought I was drunk. It wouldn't have been the first time.

I'm more careful now, about that anyway. I'm doing my damnedest to make sure this _isn't_ the last time I get to pull an all-nighter, and a few other things... Treasure every moment, right? And fuck, if this place were upscale enough to have a chandelier I'd swing on the thing just for the hell of it, like the girl in that song they played an hour ago that hits too damn close for comfort now, when I really listen to the words. 

I'll still dance to it. I'll dance to nearly anything, even songs I've heard so many times they bore me to death. It's the beat I want. The pulse of each room, the heartbeats of a thousand different people all crammed into one tiny hot dark space too near capacity, all wanting the same kinda thing. Some of them are here for sex, some to drink themselves senseless, some just to dance - and okay, some to work, but they're the ones who _have_ to be here, it's not like they chose it. The ones who did choose to come here, well, we all want one thing when you get right down to it.

We want to feel alive.

I'll take the pills if I'm promised I'll be able to lead my normal life with 'em, at least my social life, even if they won't give me much more time either way. I don't know how much good they'll do with this much vodka and all my other drinks mixed in - maybe I should google that just to see if anyone was actually dumb or fucked enough to look up what this kind of stuff does to how they work - but I don't really care that much. What would the point in having more time be if I wouldn't get to use it the way I want? If I'm not gonna try to enjoy what life I've got left?

I don't think there'd be one. 

I might not have a whole lot of time left... but I'm damned if I won't use every last minute of it. So tonight, and every night from now until I can't stand it any longer, I'll tart myself up just as I like and dance like a mad thing, go wild, ride the wave from one club to the next, get up on the poles in this place if I feel like it, wind myself up and spin like a top 'til the tongues of the crowd hang out so far they drown their shoes in drool. I might grab a girl or a guy and go let them fuck me out back of the club, the light's crap enough around this place that they wouldn't see a thing wrong with me but smudged makeup, not that I'd give them the chance. I want to look the way I always have. I want them to see me gorgeous. I want to be wanted.

It wouldn't be the first time I'd had a stranger up against a wall. I used to be ashamed of it. Used to. Fuck shame. I won't lose any more of my life to that if I can help it. I want to do _everything_ , while I still can.

I've always been on fire. I won't let this thing take that away from me 'til the last moment possible, even if it takes my life. It wouldn't fucking dare.

And maybe, some other night, I'll find some swanky place that has a real chandelier, dress up like a princess, go in there sometime and see if I _can_ get up that high. I can afford the right clothes for the job; it's not as though I need to save for a mortgage now. I like my designers, always have, but I've tried to go easy on the spending sprees. No need now. No point in putting money away for a rainy day; I don't use clichés as a rule, but like the old people say, you can't take it with you.

Just one last wish, huh. I can see their faces now. Watch the princess in her ball gown swinging 'round a crystal carousel like a naughty kid, getting glass papercuts on her fingertips and turning the light blood-red as she hangs on tight; just watch me. Watch me hang on for dear life, or just for life. Watch me.

What I've got doesn't matter. I refuse to even think the word. What matters is this. Now. Tonight. I won't let this thing stop me dancing. Not now, not ever. I hold on tight and I don't look down.

 _Nothing_ gets to stop me dancing.


End file.
